


Light Fare

by Vivian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, I apologise for my actions, I blame Jam, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex, This escalated quickly, sin - Freeform, sin sin sin, what is my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: When youaccidentallyrun into one of your enemies while shopping for suits, and then tell his brother about it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on [ Jam ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked), on the fact that in the show both Jim and Mycroft wear Reiss suits, and on S4E3. This is super self indulgent and sort of accidentally happened while I was chatting with Jam.  
> All my thanks goes to my darling [darling](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelas) who beta'd the first chapter of this sin.

 

i.

 

Barrett Street, London.

The sky is bright azur. The streets filled with tourists and those who can afford leisure on Thursday’s mid-noon. And some others, who work in ways not quite relatable to the average population.

Jim gets out of the car. Sebastian keeps the engine on.

In front of him, the Reiss store lies open to view, glass front and delicate steel frames.

A little bird told him to find a certain someone inside. A certain someone whose taste might come close to his own, if he weren’t such a terrible philistine.

It has happened once before, this. By chance, which is, Jim ponders, quite amusing considering who both of them are.

Jim enters the store. The lady at the counter bids him welcome. He smiles at her, and continues onward.

There he is. Tall and lanky in a blue pinstriped suit. He’s delicate in the way only the English are, more delicate than Sherlock, and less graceful. Mycroft Holmes is reptilian in his steady glare and the deception of his long limbs and soft belly. He’s perhaps the second deadliest man in the country.

He looks up now. No surprise flickers over his features. Maybe he knew. Maybe he’s just good at playing.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Jim drawls. His gaze rakes down Mycroft’s front.

A beat of silence. Then Mycroft says,

“That assassination in Islamabad had a distinct whiff of you.” Mycroft straightens his sleeves. “Might you've been involved?”

Jim glances at him, considering the light grey suit behind Mycroft.

“Can't answer that while you're wearing _these_ colours. Makes my head all fuzzy, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft's mouth twitches, lips curling into a dangerous smile. But he does take off the suit jacket, folds it over his arm. Jim grins.

“I might have you arrested, et cetera,” Mycroft say. “Again.”

Jim saunters over, stroking a finger over the grey suit. Mycroft follows his motion.

“Oh?” Jim says, “well?” He opens his arms. “‘m all yours.”

Mycroft’s gaze narrows. They both know it won’t happen. Not in public. Jim’s elusive, Mycroft knows that, too. Even for someone with Mycroft’s means.

“No?” Jim grimaces. “How disappointing. Was rather looking forward to a good slap.”

Mycroft steps closer, towering over Jim.

“This one,” Jim says and then turns towards the light grey suit. Mycroft stares at him a moment longer, then slides the hanger off the rail.

“Old money and intellect,” Jim says, lets a spill of jeer bleed through his tone. He sucks his lower lip into his mouth, drags his teeth over it.

“My, will you look dapper. Downright _edible_.”

Mycroft doesn’t reply. Instead, he makes for the changing room. He walks, back straight, chin high, profile sharp. Mycroft might’ve just been chatting politely with a detested acquaintance, for all anyone else knows. Jim waits until Mycroft’s drawn the little curtain of the changing room close, then he follows him. The lady at the counter is too entranced by the magazine she’s reading to notice. The security men at the doors look straight ahead. It’d be too easy if it wasn’t Mycroft he was trying to rattle. Just a bit.

Jim slips through the curtain.

Mycroft’s just taken off his waistcoat. His eyes widen and his mouth opens in a gasp that he swallows down the next moment. He composes his face.

“What are you doing,” Mycroft says.

“Watching you undress.”

Mycroft crosses his arms, fingers closing hard around the cloth the waistcoat he’s still holding.

“This is…”

“Sexy,” Jim cuts him off.

Mycroft’s face twitches. It’s hard not to laugh.

Instead of an answer, Mycroft folds his waistcoat and places it on the dressing stool. Then he turns decidedly towards the suit he’s hung up. He takes off its waistcoat, and slides it on. After that, the jacket. He smooths it down his chest with his long, thin fingers. His face is utterly neutral.

“So you decided to get involved with the _Tehreek-e-Taliban_ ,” Mycroft states.

“Did I?”

Mycroft throws him a vicious glance.

“Why would I do that. They are such _terrible_ people.” Jim comes closer. “Straighten your tie.”

Mycroft doesn’t. “If there is but a crumb of evidence, we’ll have you.”

“You can have me now,” Jim replies, head tilted up to meet Mycroft’s gaze.

“I suggest you leave this room. We’ve already drawn attention.”

“Boring,” Jim says and moves a little closer. Mycroft does not recoil. Just looks, eyes cold.

Jim grazes his thumb against the inner side of Mycroft’s wrist.

“What a waste,” Jim says, “working for the government. We could have so much _fun_.”

“Isn’t that what you do with Sherlock.”

Jim draws in a sudden breath. “You’ve been watching. How naughty of you.”

Not that it’s news to Jim. He bites his lip, presses his thumb further up, underneath Mycroft’s sleeve. He feels the warmth of Mycroft’s body. Feels Mycroft’s steady pulse. And yet. He closes his fingers over Mycroft’s wrist, draws it close. Slow enough for Mycroft to pull back. Mycroft doesn’t. Jim places their hands against his own throat.

“Just once. Pretty please.”

Mycroft’s fingertips on his skin. Electric. But not quite Sherlock.

There’s momentum in Mycroft’s eyes. Then Mycroft removes his hand. He turns to the mirror. Mycroft’s muscles are tense with pretense.

“Why don’t I get on my knees and suck you off,” Jim says, casually.

Mycroft closes his eyes.

“I think not,” Mycroft says.

But Mycroft’s eyes are still closed. So Jim steps near. And sinks down.

Mycroft’s lids flutter open. Jim reaches upwards and cups Mycroft’s half hard cock through his trousers.

“Don’t be a killjoy,” Jim says. “Choke me with that.”

Mycroft snarls. Then he seizes Jim’s hair in his right.

“ _Impertinent_ —” He hisses.

Jim laughs and unzips Mycroft’s trousers. He wraps his hands around Mycroft’s cock. It hardens further. A shiver runs down Jim’s spine.

“As I said,” Jim murmurs, “edible.” He swallows him down messily.

A soft exhale above him. Mycroft’s grip tightens. The next moment, he thrusts into Jim’s mouth without reserve or courtesy. Perfect. Jim takes it. He lets Mycroft use his mouth. He closes his eyes and thinks about Sherlock discovering the traces of what he’s done. Thinks about what Sherlock will do, what might flicker over his pale face and paler eyes. All that pent up brotherly rivalry, another twisted coil to it.

Mycroft draws back, then pushes in hard. Jim chokes. The sound is barely covered by the soft music that plays in the room.

Suddenly, steps.

“Sir, can I be of any assistance?”

Mycroft freezes. Jim feels him inhale.

“I’m quite alright,” Mycroft says, voice level. Just a hint of strain to its edge. "Thank you."

“Very well, sir.”

The steps veer away.

Jim would laugh if his mouth weren’t stuffed with Mycroft’s cock. He glances upwards. Their gazes meet. Mycroft purses his lips in what might be disgust. Jim draws back a little, letting Mycroft’s cock slide over his tongue. But before the contact is broken, Mycroft tears Jim close by the hair, forcing his length down Jim’s throat. Spit gathers at the corners of Jim’s mouth. He’ll be so raw afterwards.

He reaches upwards, fingers sliding underneath Mycroft’s shirt, nails dragging over skin. Mycroft twists his wrist, pulling Jim’s hair sharply. Pain simmers through Jim. He swallows around Mycroft.

He feels Mycroft’s cock twitch.

Then Mycroft’s voice, just a little breathless, “Don’t spill a drop.” A second later the bitter taste of semen floods Jim’s mouth. He swallows it all, thinks, _Sherlock will smell it on my breath_.

When Jim’s suckled the last bit of it, Mycroft steps back. He tucks himself away. His cheeks are heated, and his hair a little dishevelled. He fixes himself up in the mirror, straightens the suit. Then he takes the waistcoat and suit jacket off and hangs it on the hanger once more.

Jim gets up. His knees ache. He brushes them clean. His own erection is only slowly subsiding. Mycroft doesn’t offer to take care of it.

Jim licks his lips.

“Good afternoon, Mr Holmes,” he says and smirks.

Mycroft doesn’t look at him.

Jim steps out of the changing room. Just as he is about to leave the shop, he can see Mycroft walk to the counter out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft holds up the light grey suit.

“This one please.”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft says, irony clear in his voice.

 

Jim buttons his coat while he gets into the car waiting for him outside.

“Take me to Baker Street,” he says to Sebastian.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses. Enjoy my sins.

 

Sherlock knows the moment, Jim enters the flat.

It’s written all across him. The slight crumple of his suit, his hair that has been dishevelled, then slicked back into place. But more than the stink of sex, it’s the look in his eyes that tells Sherlock.

Jim stands still in the open door. Shadow congealed.

Only a splatter of light against Jim’s cheek and shoulder from behind him. Sherlock tenses in his armchair. It’s John’s day off. John’s out for the afternoon and possibly the night, but there’s always the possibility of him being dumped, leading to his untimely return.

Something vile coils in Sherlock’s stomach as he takes Jim in. As he reads what Jim’s just done. And with whom.

“Back so soon,” Sherlock says, cold.

It spurs Jim into movement. He advances, closing the door behind him, cutting off the light. The rest of the flat is dim, curtains closed to keep out the glare of the June sun.

“Miss me?” Jim says.

Sherlock stands. It’s sudden and almost violent. He grinds his teeth, relaxes, folds his hands behind his back.

“You’re being vulgar _and_ boring,” Sherlock says, “I expected more.”

“Not true.” Jim shakes his head. “This is exactly what you expected. This is exactly what I let you expect.” Jim wiggles his finger, corners of his mouth turned down. “Didn’t mummy teach you not to lie? Didn’t big brother teach you?”

Sherlock takes a step closer. Jim tilts his head back to look at him. His eyes black, and within them, an edged glint. Like obsidian. Now, mischief sets them alight. Or perhaps it’s something crueler. Sherlock’s mouth twitches. He can’t quite suppress a shiver. In the twilight, Jim looks hardly human. It’s not a thought that comes often to a mind like his.

And yet, his brother’s scent is all over Jim. Sherlock can smell it on his breath.

Disgust churns inside him.

“He did me good,” Jim slurs his words. “Bit rude though. Left me all wanting. Is that what he did to you when you were children?”

“Shut up.”

Jim makes a grumbling noise, squinching up his face. “Sore spot?” Jim tilts his head, cracking his vertebrae. The sound is strangely animalistic in the silence.

Sherlock moves in front of Jim, looks down at him. Jim’s face bare of emotion, a mask to discard later.

“Was good, y’know. Didn’t think he’d be that…” Jim waves his hand, “... _viril_.”

That’s enough. Something inside Sherlock snaps. He shoves Jim against the wall, harsh exhale against Jim’s lips.

“You want to vex me? With such banalities?” He hisses. Jim leans his head back, he’s flush against the wall, limbs relaxed. Sherlock’s seen it before, knows it. It’s how Jim gets whenever being threatened. He’s utterly passive, utterly powerful.

“Banalities work on you,” Jim says, sounds almost bored.

Sherlock’s hand shoots up, fingers snaking around Jim’s throat. The pulse underneath is undeterred. Rage flares in Sherlock. He squeezes. Jim closes his eyes. His lips part slightly, his eyelashes flutter.

Against Sherlock’s thigh, Jim hardens.

“So this is it,” Sherlock murmurs, voice low. “How ordinary.”

Jim chuckles. “Oh Sherlock.” He says it like one might address a presumptuous child. He says it like Sherlock doesn’t _understand_ . It is what Mycroft always implies. _Mycroft_.

A bolt of fury goes through Sherlock. It cools the next second, turns into something other. Sherlock reaches down with his free hand, groping Jim through his trousers.

“So that’s what he did,” Sherlock says. “And you let him. You wanted him to.”

“Oh yeah,” Jim breathes.

“You wanted him to use you.”

Jim hardens further in his grip.

“You’re catching on.”

Sherlock has never done this before, has never really wanted to. But Jim’s throat underneath his palm, and Jim’s cock in his hand—it’s electric. Because. Because it’s Jim.

Sherlock leans down, inhales Jim’s exhales. He squeezes harder, caging Jim’s breath. When he releases the pressure, he steals the air from Jim’s lips. It’s not quite a kiss. Jim melts into it, he yields, he bends. Sherlock moves against him with his whole body.

Then Sherlock draws back.

“Tell me what he did,” Sherlock says.

Jim looks at him with dark eyes. Two entities of black set into flesh. They pull him in. Sherlock stands back.

When Jim speaks it almost seems like some other person speaks. Voice detached from his body, body detached from the night tide in his eyes. “I got on my knees. He pretended he didn’t want me to. Then he pulled my hair and fucked my mouth,” Jim says flatly. “He rather forgot to ask about the Pakistani terrorists he thinks I’m in league with.”

“Are you?”

Jim shrugs. “You don’t care.”

“Don’t I?” Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“No,” Jim says like it’s obvious. Perhaps it is.

A small smirk stretches Sherlock’s lips. He doesn’t care. It’s tediously far from London. He does not care what happens somewhere he can’t go and pick it all apart and then put it back together. Long distance cases are not worthy of consideration, and he’s not in the mood for the Pakistani sun.

Jim’s eyes are heavy lidded, his mouth parted. His own hand against where his stiff cock tents the fabric of his trousers. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine.

“Thought about you,” Jim says.

A flicker of pleasure jolts through Sherlock’s veins. He feels his lips curl upwards.

“‘Fraid you’ll have to leave,” Sherlock says.

Jim takes his hand off of himself. He sighs. “Your pet _is_ unlucky in love.”

“John’s not in love,” Sherlock says, listening to steps on the pavement outside, coming closer.

“Oh he is. Just not with his girlfriends.”

“What are you implying.”

“It think that’s rather obvious.”

Sherlock snorts. Then he goes to open the window.

“John!” he shouts. On the street, John stills. “Could you go get us some milk and beans?”

John frowns, shoulders tense. “Right,” he shouts back and turns on his heel.

“That was noble,” Jim says. He’s come up behind Sherlock. When Sherlock turns, Jim steps back, opening space between them. Before Sherlock knows he’s doing it, he seizes Jim’s wrist and pulls him in. Jim staggers forward. Sherlock spins him around, presses him against the wall next to the window. The sudden urge to kiss him. He does, kisses Jim hard, bites his lower lip, and as Jim’s mouth opens, Sherlock slides his tongue inside. Wet warmth. A spark of pleasure, unexpected. He’s getting hard. He never gets hard with other people. But Jim’s not other people. Jim could most certainly kill him now with a tap to his phone or a wave of his hand. They’re never quite alone. Not that Sherlock cares. Not that Sherlock doesn’t enjoy it. He shoves Jim harder against the wall.

Jim turns his head to the side. His lips reddened by Sherlock’s teeth.

“Patience,” Jim says. He shifts.

Sherlock hesitates, then steps back. Jim smooths down his suit.

Jim does not look back as he leaves.

Sherlock stares after him, trying to calm his heartbeat.

 

John returns half an hour later. Sherlock greets him sporadically. He retreats to his room without having had lunch or dinner.

His head spins. He knows it’s the pheromones, the adrenaline coursing through his blood, the thrill that is Jim Moriarty. There, beneath Sherlock’s skin.

 

It’s around midnight two days later when his phone rings with an unknown caller ID.

Sherlock picks up.

Harsh breathing. It’s Jim. He sounds off, like the speaker of the phone is out of reach. Like he called by accident. Or without someone else noticing.

“Bend over.”

Sherlock freezes. It’s the voice of his brother. But not like he’s ever heard Mycroft’s voice. Harsh, demanding, and yet...sultry. Repulsion rushes through Sherlock. And something else, too, something fiercer.

“How impersonal,” Jim says. Cloth rustles. Something’s been discarded on the floor.

Then a wet sound. It rings in Sherlock’s ear. The sound repeats, like something slick pressing into something tight. Jim moans again, tremble to it.

Oh. _Oh_.

Of course. Heat rises to Sherlock’s cheeks.

“Get on with it,” Jim says. “Do you always let people wait that long? No wonder Sherlock’s so impatient all the time, having to grow up with—”

Jim’s words are cut off by a loud groan, half cry, that forces itself out of Jim’s mouth.

Heat spreads through Sherlock. He presses the phone closer to his ear. His other hand, he curls into a first, nails digging into the flesh of his palm.

“Quiet now,” Mycroft hisses.

Sherlock can hear the threat in his voice, and the heat too. More rustling, then a filthy sound as Mycroft first draws back, then presses deeper into Jim. Another moan falls from Jim’s lips. It lets Sherlock’s toes curl.

“God, you feel so good,” Jim moans more for show than anything else, “didn’t think you would, hadn’t hoped—”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Mycroft hisses again.

Jim just laughs.

Sherlock can picture it. Jim bent over the table in Mycroft’s study, must be the study, wouldn’t let him into his bedroom, Mycroft would still be clothed, too unsure of his body, especially in front of someone who’d drink in any sign of weakness like Jim. Spite warms Sherlock. But Jim, Jim would be naked, robbed off all defenses. Mycroft would’ve had him strip. Would take him apart, dissect him with touch. A smile stretches Sherlock’s lips. Mycroft’s wrong. And that doesn’t happen often. Jim isn’t defenseless, not one single bit. Maybe Mycroft will feel it, when it’s already too late.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” Jim moans, “show me what you’ve got.” A harsh inhale. “Yes. _Yes._ Like that.”

“I know,” Mycroft spits, voice as contemptuous as Sherlock’s ever heard it, “I know why you’re doing this.”

“Of course you do, Mr Holmes,” Jim breathes. “Doesn’t stop you though.” The mock is thick in Jim’s voice.

Sherlock wonders if Mycroft knows about the call. Possibly. Possibly not. Sherlock sits up in bed, rakes a hand through his hair. He remembers how it was to press Jim against the wall, remembers the heat of his body, his scent, his eyes—

Mycroft shouldn’t know these things. This knowledge belongs to Sherlock. Just like their game belongs to Sherlock. It’s between the two of them.

He stands, phone pressed between ear and shoulder. He considers taking his clothes off. It’s what Jim has intended. It’s what Jim _wants_ . It’s what Sherlock wants, too. To lie down and take his own cock in hand and stroke himself to the sounds that fall from Jim’s mouth. How strange. The sudden swell of desire. How _novel_. Sherlock snorts a quiet laugh. He doesn’t take his clothes off. Instead, he goes into the kitchen, careful not to make too much noise. Wouldn’t do to wake John. He puts on a kettle, glances at his experiments laid out on the kitchen table.

On the other end of the line, a sharp smack echoes. It’s followed by Jim sobbing. Another smack. The image of skin blooming red. Sherlock knows, technically, that this is a thing some people do. Why has eluded him so far. Mycroft’s hand against Jim’s arse. A shiver runs down Sherlock’s spine as he remembers a similar moment in his childhood. Mycroft had had him over his lap and spanked him. What had it been about? Some forbidden thing Sherlock did and Mycroft found out. Something dangerous. Mycroft had wanted him to apologise. Sherlock hadn’t. And that’s when Mycroft had dragged him to his room and made him splay out over his lap. Sherlock remembers it clear as day. Suddenly, he feels cold. It wasn’t so much the sting of Mycroft’s palm as the humiliation of his bared skin that had made him cry. Like Jim’s crying right now. Not quite like Jim’s crying right now.

Sherlock imagines the imprint of Mycroft’s fingers. Nausea twists in his gut.

The kettle boils. Sherlock takes it off the stove, pours himself a cup. He sits down in his armchair by the fireplace.

Another smack. Then two in quick succession.

Jim’s laboured breathing.

“Will you be quiet now?” Mycroft asks.

“You like it when I’m naughty, don’t pretend.”

Another smack. This one louder. Then a wet sound, Mycroft pushing hard into Jim.

Sherlock sips his tea, burns his tongue.

“My, what would your brother think if he knew?” Jim gasps.

“He knows already, don’t be trite,” Mycroft answers.

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat. Of course Mycroft knows. But to speak it so plainly. He really must be losing some of his wits while—

“Oh,” Jim moans, “right there, right the—”

A shuddered moan. Heat surges through Sherlock.

More rustling of clothes. The slap of flesh on flesh, harsher now. An animalistic noise. Sherlock realises it’s his brother growling. Then an almost too soft sigh.

Silence.

Steps, coming closer to the speakers.

The call ends.

The tea grows cold. The night stretches on.

 

John wakes him in the morning. He’d curled up in his chair, his neck is hurting.

When he taps the screen of his phone, there’s one unread message.

Sherlock unlocks the phone, stands.

An image.

Reddened skin, the imprint of fingers.

 _Revolting. -SH_ Sherlock types back.

The reply comes a second later.

_Want to give me some of yours? xx_

Without thought, Sherlock types,

_Yes._


End file.
